I come to this moment * 4/30/14

I come to this moment, dressed with immediacies as my impressive attire. I come to this moment with inappropriate backstories, rumored and surrounding. I come to this moment, feeling like roadside litter, dated and abandoned of meaning. I come to this moment, feigning familiarity yet presented with the actuality of this as the foreground existence of a foreign land. I come to this moment, deeply buried behind the pride of my blundering rituals on display, knighting everything that I need as if I was my majesty, as if lights go on and I am immediately at center stage, with an indifferent reverence for what is around me to behold, bathed in impartiality for how all things work for my benefit. I come to this moment as inept and unkempt, possibly as a first time tourist to the subtlest states of presence that I am aware of, as a child of my untruths, as these revelations both hound and haunt me. I am all alone in this moment to moment as only my wardrobe of consciousness knows. Each moment opening, there upon, and then closed. I am this carriage as presence for the show. Yet, I’m in the dark of my own light to tell you. I sleepwalk these dreams that make me real. I have fainted into momentary awakenness often, only to fall back into this monumental monotony that paces me onward. I am given to appearances that besiege me. I am provoked into encores from recognition, to stare at repetition’s repugnancy facing me. Some people would have this as their drunk face in a gutter, upon awakening or a cumbersome swallow, in a I-hate-myself moment or a havoc of tears with no physical outlet of reprieve, but no, I have it as my mind’s eye view with power point, talking back to me. So, I come to this moment, shockingly, without frame. I have been my own embers, making it momentous. Of itself, this moment is a palate of silent serenities in flow. This moment, disrobed of time, shimmering beyond what mass can contain or represent. Myself, disrobed of time, is much the same, as if a mind can grasp beyond itself, and be freed of recount or memory. This moment, an aperture,  evaporative of itself as frame. This moment, the last thing now known to me, to not be of the eternal embrace. Honestly, I have no parts, no me, no doing of a me. No moment comes that is not already here and I am not any more of this coming . . .